


falling in love (but cats always land on their feet)

by shootsharpest



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Barbarian Thunderstorm Darkness, Cursed Pike, F/F, Fantasy AU, First Kiss, Giant-Ass Wolf Yorak, Half-elf Thunderstorm Darkness, M/M, Magic, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, fluff and comfort, i mean.... sort of, monsters & mana, oops is that too many tags, the other characters will come along eventually!!!, they're their m&m characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootsharpest/pseuds/shootsharpest
Summary: “I think he likes you.” It’s soft, and doesn’t reach Pike’s ears until a few moments after he starts petting Yorak. As if in agreement, Yorak’s head lands heavy onto Pike’s thigh. He breaks into a grin, and looks back to Thunderstorm, gesturing excitedly at the wolf resting against him. Thunderstorm shakes his head, looking terribly fond in this moment, and--Oh. That look. That look really works some sort of magic for Pike, as something impossibly warm and every bit as tender blooms in his chest, and he’s been cursed before, but never with anything harboring this kind of softness. Oh, he thinks again.---Or, Pike gains an unexpected traveling companion, fights some monsters, and falls in love.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madnessandbrilliance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessandbrilliance/gifts).



> my first klance fic, sort of! i've been sad with the lack of thunderpike content here so!!
> 
> the chapters up to the end have all been planned, and i will update as often as i can (hopefully in good-size chunks like this) while work and school allow me to write!
> 
> happy (early) birthday to ivy who encouraged me to keep writing, and a very special thank you to my girlfriend summer who helped me flesh out this world!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His companion flusters at that a bit--probably from being caught, he figures--but he’s already inching towards Thunderstorm, chin tipped down so that the crown of his head is accessible. After a surprisingly long pause, he feels them--fingers, warm and calloused, but still damn soft somehow, and it would be maddening if he wasn’t completely focused on how gingerly these battle-worn fingers are slipping into his hair. And when they reach the base of his ear, instead of petting like he expects, Thunderstorm goes and surprises him again.
> 
> Because he scratches. And Pike purrs. He didn’t know he could do that.

**i.**

Being tied to a tree wasn’t, per se, how Pike  _ expected _ to be spending his morning, but sometimes life really just works like that. 

“Talk.” A dark leather boot nudges his foot, not hard enough to hurt but enough to grab his attention --as if he was really focusing on anything other than this roughed-up half elf holding him hostage. Pike musters up his most defiant look, complete with clenched jaw. He stares the half-elf down (or, up?). He’s met with a sigh, and a firmer nudge, the flash of a dagger at the man’s waist.   
  
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to ask  _ me _ twice,” he says then, a bit defeated. “I was just trying to see what you had on you, man, nothing big.”

A quirk of a brow. “You had your hand in my pocket.”

“Well,  _ duh _ ,” Pike rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to do my thing?”

“By thing, you mean… pick-pocketing.”

He shrugs, best as he can with his hands and arms bound. “It’s a living.”

Somehow, the guy doesn’t look convinced. He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one foot, looking for all the world like he’s about to deliver the most ‘I’m-disappointed-in-your-behavior’ lecture. Instead, though, he only says, “I wouldn’t describe thievery as a  _ living _ .” 

“Au contraire, my good friend,” Pike says, shifting a bit to sit up more. “That is where you are  _ wrong _ . You see, anything can be a living if you’re good enough at it, right? And  _ I _ ,” he tilts his chin up, “am the best of the best.” And, with that, he cuts through the final strands of the rope with his pocket knife and disappears in a flash of smoke.

He can hear the surprised gasp, the faint slide of metal against scabbard, and when he reappears behind the half-elf, there’s hardly a beat before the edge of a sword presses itself uncomfortably against his exposed neck.    
  
“Hey, hey,  _ whoa _ ,” Pike says, craning his head up. “Dude, you wanna put that away? I promise I won’t, like, dig in your pockets anymore or anything, I’ll be on my way--” He searches those violet eyes with his own for a moment, cursing the fact that he must look like he’s pleading after his grand display of bravado. They search his back, with an intensity he hasn’t seen since… ever, maybe? It’s not like he meets a  _ lot _ of people doing what he does, but the handful of interactions he’s had in the past few months went nothing like this.

The blade wavers, and then it’s gone, the fierceness fading fast from the half-elf’s face. “Fine,” he huffs out. “Just--fine. Don’t touch my bags, okay?” 

“Heh, really?” Pike grins at him, posture relaxing back into his normal stance. “I can do that, sure, yeah, whatever. I go without stealing stuff, like, most of the time.”   


A snort. “I thought you were the best of the best.”

“I am,” comes the hurried answer, and then more casually, “Most people just call me Pike, though. That’s my name.”

“Alright, well, don’t touch my stuff again, Pike,” the half-elf warns, the hand still resting absentmindedly on his scabbard coming up to adjust the belt around his waist. He turns and makes to be on his way, leaving Pike standing in the little clearing where he’d apparently spent the night, and Pike doesn’t know quite what possesses him to follow this man, but he  _ is _ .

“You know, usually when people introduce themselves, it’s, like, a reciprocal sort of thing,” Pike points out, falling (uninvited) into step with the half-elf, who looks equal parts surprised to see him following still and unamused with his words. 

“Who says this was an introduction?”

“Me, just now--keep up, dude. What’s your name, then, stranger?”

“... Thunderstorm,” he says. And then, like an afterthought, “Darkness.”

“Thunderstorm,” Pike repeats, and Thunderstorm is looking anywhere but at him, the barest hint of red dusting his cheeks--and, really, the structure of those cheeks is so  _ unfair, _ Pike thinks fleetingly--when he realizes that Thunderstorm seems to be waiting for him to say something funny about his name. “Sounds… badass,” he says after a moment of ‘thought.’

“... You think so?”

“ _ Yeah _ , dude, sounds like a cool hero, doesn’t it?” It doesn’t really--it sounds kind of ridiculous, but right now Thunderstorm is looking at him with what must be relief for the lack of teasing in his eyes, and Pike  _ is _ but one man.

Thunderstorm huffs an incredulous little laugh. “I guess so. Don’t get that one a lot,” he says, and Pike can tell he’s not so used to smalltalk maybe--he’s a little sparing with his words, and Pike wonders if maybe he’s one to avoid contact like he does, another lonely wanderer through these woods.

Pike keeps in step, and for some reason, Thunderstorm isn’t telling him to stop. Always one to push his luck, he presses forward.

“Well, Stormy--”

“‘Stormy?’” Thunderstorm’s expression colors confused again, but with a tinge of humor this time. 

Pike grins. “Yeah, ‘Stormy!’ It’s a nickname. You…  _ do _ know what a nickname is, don’t you?” Can’t ever be too sure. But by the way Thunderstorm rolls his eyes, he’s going to guess that’s a ‘yes.’

“Of course I do,” comes the answer, indignant. “But I haven’t--why are  _ you  _ giving me one?”

“Oh, because we’re friends,  _ obviously _ ,” Pike says, as if it should have been completely obvious before now. Never mind the fact that Thunderstorm tied him to a tree after he tried to pickpocket him. “It’s like, step three of being friends, I think? So… we’re doing pretty good in that department, I’d say.” He punctuates it with a faux-serious nod. 

“Oh, yeah?” It sounds like he’s almost close to laughing, a warmth Pike has yet to hear from him curling around the edge of his words. Fledgeling camaraderie! “So, what are the other steps of this, then? Was threatening one of them?”

“That was just a fluke,” Pike waves a hand dismissively. “First step--learn their name, check; second step--spend time with them, done--” Thunderstorm snorts another laugh, fuller this time. “--fine, it’s a work in  _ progress _ , then. Step three? Nicknames!”

“And that’s the whole list?”

“Well,  _ no _ , but that’s up ‘til this point. Next, we like, visit each other’s houses and meet the family and stuff, y’know?” 

“Oh,” Thunderstorm says lowly, and a second passes. “Well, I--sorry to disappoint, then.”

Without missing a beat, Pike shrugs a quick, “Me, too.” This forest is the closest thing he really has to home, honestly, ever since he can remember. “Guess that means we did all the steps we can, huh, pal?”

They fall into silence after Thunderstorm doesn’t answer, and Pike isn’t quite sure why he hasn’t told him to piss off and bother someone else with his questions yet, when his thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a huge mass of black and blue-- _ fur? _ \--hurtling towards them full speed. He lets out a less-than-dignified shriek, and in a flash of smoke is twenty feet higher, clinging to a tree branch as the furry  _ beast _ lunges for a worryingly calm Thunderstorm. A second before impact, he raises his hands and catches the beast’s face between his palms, and--to Pike’s utter surprise--begins to  _ scratch _ , murmuring in a voice too low to hear.

“What… is  _ that _ thing?”

“He has a name,” Thunderstorm calls back, still scratching at the beast like it’s a plain old dog. “Yorak. He’s my wolf. Come down and say hello.”

Pike has seen wolves before. He’s never seen one like  _ this _ \--massive, shaggy, black fur streaked with a deep blue, eagerly accepting Thunderstorm’s affections. It takes nearly all of his courage to even return to the ground, let alone approach the two of them.

“Should I… pet? Pet him?”

“I wouldn’t advise it--he could take your hand off,” Thunderstorm says grimly. When Pike recoils, holding his hand to his chest as if already bitten, he hears a soft, rolling,  _ genuine _ laugh coming from Thunderstorm’s direction.

“Oh, my god, he’s gonna eat me,” Pike mumbles, and Thunderstorm laughs again.   
  
(And Pike thinks to himself for a fleeting moment, that’s a sound he doesn’t mind so much at all.)  
  


 

**ii.**

“And  _ that’s  _ why I don’t trust bluejays anymore.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you even listening to me, Stormy?” 

“No, Pike, I was a little more focused on the fact that your  _ shortcut  _ isn’t really anything.”

“What are you talking about?” He throws his hands out to the side exasperatedly. “I’ll have you know I know my way around these woods like the back of my  _ hand _ ! I even took you the scenic way! I mean--I mean, just  _ look _ at this cluster of rocks. How many times have you passed a formation this cool on your travels, huh? When are you gonna get the chance to see one again?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, maybe eight times? Because we’ve passed it  _ eight times now. _ ” He’s got his arms crossed now, and the full day of walking is starting to take its toll, Pike thinks--he can see it in Thunderstorm’s eyes, in the way he’s carrying his shoulders now. 

“... Oh. So I guess… you  _ do _ know when you’re going to see one again?” Pike offers, trying at least to turn this into a humorous situation, but Thunderstorm doesn’t laugh.

“Let’s just… Make camp,” he sighs, scratching at the back of Yorak’s ears before making his way towards the little outcropping. Pike follows behind, a little sheepish. 

“Uh, well… We need to make a fire, right? Or… set up the bedrolls? I don’t… have one of those,” he says. Pike’s never made a camp before, really; in the short time he’s lived in this forest, he usually re-stokes a fire he sees if it’s cold enough, or sleeps protected in a tree beneath his cloak. 

“Neither do I,” Thunderstorm says, nonchalant. “Usually just sleep on the ground. A fire’s not a bad idea, though.”

“Oh, I can get wood for that!” He perks back up, already taking a few steps back from the outcropping. “Leave it to me, dude!” And in a flash he’s back up in the trees, tugging at a thicker stick with his hand until it snaps free. He continues until he’s got a good fistful, and poofs himself back down to the ground where Thunderstorm is waiting.    
  
“You know you can’t--these aren’t firewood,” he says a bit exasperatedly. Pike’s face falls a bit before he can catch himself. 

“Oh.”

“Listen, I’ll get the firewood. You just… keep an eye out, okay?”

“Sure, yeah,” he mutters, kicking at one of the twigs with his foot. Thunderstorm doesn’t seem to notice how dejected he is--either that, or doesn’t care--and heads back into the woods. Yorak elects to stay behind, evidently, and curls up a few feet from where Pike is sitting. He fights the instinct to move away again, but Yorak just looks at him with curious, unblinking eyes, and he’s not sure if that’s worse. Pike busies (or, distracts) himself with arranging some medium-sized stones into a circle as he waits for Thunderstorm to return with the firewood. 

He hears him before he sees him. “Are you… making a fire pit?”

“Well, yeah!” He grins. “Isn’t that the next step?”

“You and your steps,” Thunderstorm laughs, dropping an armful of wood into the center and squatting down to create a more structured pile. 

Pike pretends he didn’t say that, that he did something helpful instead, and grins. “So, Stormy, what’s next? Constructing hammocks?”

Thunderstorm hums. “Food.” As he says it, Yorak’s ears perk up, and Pike’s stomach falls. He is  _ not _ about to be wolf-chow. And maybe Thunderstorm  _ can _ read his mind, because he whistles, short and high, and Yorak hops to his feet, attentive and tensed. Thunderstorm gives him another firm, “Food,” and the wolf breaks into a mad dash for the trees. He turns back to Pike with a smirk, returning to stoking the new fire with a thick twig (one of the ones Pike brought back, he realizes with a bit of self-satisfaction).

It’s mostly quiet, broken by the occasional crackle of the flames or by Pike asking Thunderstorm another question only to be met with a curt, one- or two-word answer, until Yorak trots back into camp with a large rabbit in his mouth and a proud look on his face. Thunderstorm lights up and scratches at his ears again when he drops it before them, and for a moment, Pike can pretend this isn’t a  _ huge _ , lumbering wolf but an enthusiastic puppy. 

Thunderstorm flicks open a small knife from his boot and raises it to start cleaning the rabbit, trying to ward off Yorak’s eager nosing as he does, and Pike watches for an amused moment before saying, “Here, let me. It’s the least I can do, right?” He holds out a hand to Thunderstorm, who looks him up and down briefly, then passes the rabbit to him.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” 

“Of course I do,” he says, a little defensive, and his ears flatten on their own in response. “I do this, like,  _ all  _ the time.” That’s not a lie--he’s gotten pretty adept at hunting for himself since he made it to these woods a year ago. Thunderstorm only shrugs at that. No doubt he’s thinking that if Pike screws up enough, he can always have Yorak find him something else.

Well, they’ll see about  _ that _ .

Pike makes quick, easy work of the rabbit, separating the meat from the superfluous parts, stacking the former on a rock he’d quickly cleaned using Thunderstorm’s canteen and piling the latter on the ground beside him. Yorak eyes those bits hungrily, and in a moment of boldness (or stupidity), Pike raises his hand in a ‘come here’ motion to the wolf, who does so quickly. He’s still intimidating, crowding into Pike’s space, and when he opens his mouth to lick his jowls, Pike catches a glimpse of terrifyingly sharp, gleaming teeth. 

But he’s gotten himself this far, and he’s not about to back down now in front of Thunderstorm. Thunderstorm, who’s watching him with a curious expression as Yorak’s sniffing him, equally curious. Pike slides the bulk of the trimmings to Yorak with the flat side of Thunderstorm’s knife, and the wolf happily snaps it all up in one easy bite. Emboldened, Pike lifts the last few scraps up towards him in the palm of his hand. 

When Yorak’s mouth opens again, it is his tongue that reaches Pike’s hand, gentle in a way he never would have expected from a wolf big enough to tear him into pieces if he so wished--or was so commanded, the thought of which had his eyes snapping to Thunderstorm again. His companion’s eyes are nearly unreadable, dark and intrigued as the light of the fire catches them, but as he watches Yorak continue to lick Pike’s hand, and as Pike relaxes enough to reach up with a slow hand to scratch at Yorak’s ears, the hint of a smile quirks at the corners of his lips. 

“I think he likes you.” It’s soft, and doesn’t reach Pike’s ears until a few moments after he starts petting Yorak. As if in agreement, Yorak’s head lands heavy onto Pike’s thigh. He breaks into a grin, and looks back to Thunderstorm, gesturing excitedly at the wolf resting against him. Thunderstorm shakes his head, looking  _ terribly _ fond in this moment, and--

_ Oh. _ That look. That look really works some sort of magic for Pike, as something impossibly warm and every bit as tender blooms in his chest, and he’s been cursed before, but never with anything harboring this kind of softness.  _ Oh _ , he thinks again.

Thunderstorm gets to his feet then, grabbing another of the twigs Pike gathered before, and begins skewering smaller cuts of the rabbit meat to hold it over the fire. As he does, the ‘spell’ breaks, and Pike reaches for the rock again. It’s flat and thin, not unlike a pan. He rearranges the larger pieces of meat on the slab and, when satisfied, plops it down onto the fire. When he realizes Thunderstorm is watching him, his mouth opens of its own volition to explain, somewhat lamely, “When the rock gets hot, the meat will cook.”

“Yes, I’m aware how cooking works,” Thunderstorm teases, already pulling his makeshift skewer from the fire and eating a pretty-rare chunk. (This is a bit of a relief; Pike almost never cooks his meat, and the only times he has have been when some random traveler left a fire burning behind them, never on one he’d made for the express purpose of making food.) 

Pike spears his own cut of meat and tucks into it, trying (and failing) not to drop a few scraps to a begging Yorak. Thunderstorm laughs again at that. “You can’t just fall for the puppy-dog eyes every time,” he chides, but there’s only amusement in his voice. 

They eat in comfortable silence as the sun slips the rest of the way beneath the horizon through the trees. Everything is bathed in the warm, amber glow of their fire, and the two travelers toss in their sticks and another log before deciding to call it a night, stretching out by the stone ring around the pit Pike made. It’s less comfortable sleeping on the ground, he thinks, but he doubts Yorak will be letting him up anytime soon, and he figures if he sleeps here, there’s less chance Thunderstorm will be moving on without him, come morning. He’s still wondering exactly  _ why  _ he’s been allowed to tag along this whole time when Thunderstorm’s voice interrupts  _ his _ thoughts, for once.

“So, uh… I’ve been wanting to ask, but…”   


Here it comes. It always does.

“I wasn’t born with them,” Pike sighs, tilting his head up against his arm so he can meet Thunderstorm’s eyes. They’re sleeping at angles to the fire, so that their heads are closest together and their feet reach away from the outcropping. “--If that’s what you meant.” He only adds that to be polite; he knows it’s always the first thing people wonder when they meet him. Most travelers have seen Catfolk before, and he knows he looks almost nothing like them--his face is too human, his hands lack the claws, his body is too smooth, his ears too small, his tail too thin.

“Oh,” Thunderstorm says.  _ Bingo _ , Pike thinks to himself. He’s not upset at the question, really, nor at the one he expects next. Sure enough, Thunderstorm clears his throat softly and continues. “So… How did you get them?”

It’s not like he chooses to spill his life story to just  _ any _ Tharheim or Elanil who asks. Hell, he has no reason to tell this man, who’s barely shared more than the vague location of where he’s even  _ going _ since they met early this afternoon, but he also hasn’t given him any indication that he’s asking out of anything other than the same curiosity Pike’s been exhibiting all day, and so he doesn’t really feel it necessary to lie or snap at him about privacy and personal secrets.

“A witch,” he says. “I got on her bad side. Terrible idea, I know, but it was an accident, I swear--I was an actual cat for a while. Wandered around, no idea what had happened, until another witch--I know, I know--took me in. She tried to undo the magic, but… she wasn’t powerful enough, I guess? So, here I am. Ears and tail and all.” He falls silent, waiting. Thunderstorm takes a moment to take in his story, seeming to believe it. 

“Wait—you were a cat? For how long?”

He smiles grimly. “Don’t remember. I don’t remember anything that happened before that, actually.” 

“Oh.” He sounds sad. Pike’s felt enough pity for several lifetimes, though, so he shakes it off a bit. 

“It’s not so bad,” he shrugs. “I can see and hear pretty well—plus, you know what they say about ‘cat-like reflexes,’ right?”

Thunderstorm only hums, still looking at him--at them, more like, the way everyone eventually can’t help from staring at his ears for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Pike decides to just get it over with. He grins at Thunderstorm, only partly forced. “You can touch them, once. I let everyone get in one so they won’t ask again. It’s fine.”

His companion flusters at that a bit--probably from being caught, he figures--but he’s already inching towards Thunderstorm, chin tipped down so that the crown of his head is accessible. After a surprisingly long pause, he feels them--fingers, warm and calloused, but still damn  _ soft  _ somehow, and it would be maddening if he wasn’t completely focused on how gingerly these battle-worn fingers are slipping into his hair. And when they reach the base of his ear, instead of petting like he expects, Thunderstorm goes and surprises him again.

Because he  _ scratches _ . And Pike  _ purrs. _ He didn’t know he could do that.

They stay like that for a long moment. He doesn’t push away, and Thunderstorm doesn’t show any sign of stopping, until Pike shifts, relaxing, and the fingers jolt back as if burned. “Sorry,” he hears Thunderstorm say, barely above a whisper, and he can’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss as they retreat to their respective sleeping positions. Pike pushes it down as soon as he catches it, though, and snaps his eyes shut. As Yorak snores gently behind him, and now that Thunderstorm’s rolled over to face the forest again, his distractions from his own brain are pretty minimal. Was it foolish to let Thunderstorm know the real story, to let him in like that?

He’s pretty sure, as his breathing slows and evens, as he curls closer to the fire, that he can feel those fingers in his hair again, and he doesn’t hate it.

 

**iii.**

In the morning when he wakes, the sun streaming through the treeline has nearly overtaken the brightness of the fire before his face. Pike sits up, stretches calmly, before realizing--

He is alone.

Quickly, he runs his hands over his body, his belt. Everything seems to be in place, though, and that should be the only relief he needs. But he’s not relieved--he’s worried, brain suddenly very much awake. What happened with Thunderstorm? And Yorak? Were they taken? If so, he would have been, too--did they leave?

Did he do something wrong? 

(He hates that he’s most worried over that.)

Pike scrambles to his feet, shaking his head and trying his best to stomp out the last smoldering embers of the fire--the last thing he needs is to be somehow responsible for a forest fire. He makes his way into the treetops, scanning from higher boughs. It only takes a few minutes, sweeping in wide circles around the perimeter of their camp when he spots him. He’d recognize that shaggy head of hair anywhere now, he thinks as he drops, silent as snow, to the ground behind him. 

“So you were just going to leave, huh?” Pike says without greeting. At the very least, the small fright it causes Thunderstorm is a bit satisfying on the edge of the anger and hurt he can’t believe he’s feeling. The man turns on a heel--luckily not to press a blade to his throat again--and fixes him with that searing gaze that seemingly comes so effortlessly.

“Of  _ course _ I wasn’t, idiot--I was getting  _ water _ .” He waves the canteen in his hand to punctuate the sentence, as if it should have been something Pike just  _ knew _ .

“Oh.”

“You were still asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. Besides, I don’t think I can really get rid of you, can I?”

Now,  _ humor _ he can do. Pike slings a companionable arm around his shoulders, feels how Thunderstorm doesn’t waver even in the slightest with the force of it. “Nope, you’re stuck with me, Stormy! Look at it this way, you don’t have to go all the way back to camp to get me now.”

“Oh, yeah, you saved me a whole  _ two minute walk _ , goody. I don’t even know what to do with all this extra time it leaves me.” Thunderstorm always meets him blow for blow when they bicker like this, and it’s strange to think how quickly this started to feel like some sort of normalcy in Pike’s day. Gods, it had only  _ been _ a day, hadn’t it? Less than? No matter.

Yorak re-entering their clearing was less jarring this time--trotting happily into their field of view and passing a rather betrayed Thunderstorm to let Pike scratch at his ears again, tail wagging furiously. Pike laughs at his companion’s huff, and he jogs a bit so he can fall into position walking next to him. This time, Yorak alternates sides, sometimes sticking to Thunderstorm’s, sometimes Pike’s, and other times disappearing into the trees for long stretches, only to reappear ahead of them a bit. 

He’d looked over the map with Thunderstorm earlier, and estimated they’d reach the pass between the Eastern mountains within a few more days’ walking. It’s easy to slip back into their banter, he finds, pleased. They’re making great time and even better company.

That is, until it all goes to shit.

 

**iv.**

There it was  _ again _ . That aggravating, taunting little  _ flicker _ just on the corner of his peripheral vision. It was driving him well and truly crazy, pausing every so often--but shrugging off Thunderstorm’s questioning each time--as they navigated a particularly dense section of the woods. He could never quite catch it in his view, until, a few moments after Thunderstorm said something about the mist closing in, it showed up a few feet to his left, in plain sight.

And, oh, is it  _ shiny. _ He wants it. His imagination runs wild, imagining what sort of golden treasure this was--what riches it might lead to if he can just get his hands around it. So, try he does, straying silently off the path. Thunderstorm won’t worry where he is, right? Right. He’ll only be gone a moment, maybe he won’t even notice.

Right.

Pike nearly stumbles over a tree root in his insistence in not letting this golden light out of his sight, but it seems to have other plans. It disappears right before his eyes as he gets closer, and he begins to turn back with disappointment when it suddenly lights up again, this time a good twenty feet away. He grins then, and the chase is on. It’s almost cute, he thinks, as it plays this little game with him, but he’s determined now and won’t let it get out of his sight again.

The chase leads him to what might be the largest tree he’s ever seen--impressive for someone who lives amongst them. He’s peering up the trunk at the twinkling gold shine, a few branches up, and trying to judge if he can make that in one jump or two when frantic shouting reaches him through the haze.

“Pike-- _ there _ you are!” He doesn’t need to turn to recognize that voice, so he still doesn’t let the light out of his sight. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” 

_ Come on. He’s just going to leave anyway. He probably wanted to make sure you didn’t steal anything before you left. _

Jaw clenched and determined, he  _ poofs _ himself to that first, lowest set of branches. He can hear Thunderstorm’s shouting again, but Pike ignores it, along with the barking he can hear at the base of the tree.  _ That’s right, the wolf, he should be  _ afraid  _ of it-- _

The gold gleam continues its little vanishing-reappearing act as he chases it higher and higher, until it’s finally,  _ finally _ almost within reach. He walks surely across the thick, soft foliage blanketing this particular bough, clambers up the side of the strange formation the light rests on top of, and closes his hand around it. 

“Aha!” He cheers, bringing his fist closer to his face. As he opens it, he’s back to imagining the worth of the prize he’s caught, but that fizzles out as his fingers curl back out.  _ Nothing.  _ There’s nothing in his hand. Pike only has a moment to mourn the loss of this little treasure before something heavy--and sticky?--lands hard on his head, pushing him down,  _ down _ , into more wetness, and he takes a struggling breath as it surrounds him and threatens to fill his mouth. It’s dark suddenly, and the liquid is viscous like tree sap. He fights to reach for the little knife in his pack, but that’s hardly suited for a conflict--it’s more a bread-knife than anything, honestly--and lashes out, finding that it meets tough, fibrous resistance at the end of his arm’s length. His lungs and arm start to burn with the effort after a few attempts, and he panics. Is this how he dies, sticky and embarrassed, with no one knowing where he is or what happened to him?

But no--there’s one person, he realizes, and he can’t help the little spark that bubbles in his chest. He  _ clings _ to it. Because, even though there’s so many reasons Thunderstorm wouldn’t come for him, he can’t help but keep his hold on this  _ real _ glimmer--hope.

Outside, he can hear a voice, sounding like it’s underwater, forming almost-coherent sounds, and all Pike can think is  _ back up _ , his air supply running so low and--

Silver slices through the surface before him, as unobtrusively as possible, lengths away from even coming close to Pike, but ginger in its own way. The fluid around him flows away, out, and he sputters, coughing up a mouthful of vile liquid. Strong hands come to grip his arms, to hold him up as his body threatens to fall.    
  
“--ke?  _ Pike _ ?”

He blinks, dazed, as his breathing evens back out. Thunderstorm’s sword clatters to the ground, far,  _ far _ below where he’s perched, clutching onto Pike, eyes all at once frantic and dark and... _ stormy. _

“Stormy,” he repeats aloud, and the relief and gratitude that that one word causes on the half-elf’s face takes his breath away more than this whole ordeal had.

“You went and got yourself eaten by a  _ plant _ , why didn’t you listen to me? Haven’t you heard not to follow will o’ the wisps? What if I hadn’t  _ found _ you?”

He bites his lip. (It tastes horrible.) What if he hadn’t showed up? Pike would have been plant food, right? He should be grateful that he’s even alive to be pondering this right now, but he can’t stop his own question from tumbling out, despite the burn of his still-aching lungs.

“Why did you save me?” The  _ you could have gone on, _ the  _ you had a job to do and I’m not part of it _ hang in the air, and yet Thunderstorm frowns, like it’s the silliest question he’s ever heard.

“I couldn’t just leave you like that,” he says, some kind of new urgency creeping into his words. After a beat of stunned silence on Pike’s end, he backtracks a bit. “Not after Yorak finally took a liking to you, I mean. You know?”

“Sure, Yorak,” he huffs a laugh, leans his head down to rest it on Thunderstorm’s shoulder ( _ because this might be the only chance he gets _ ) because it’s hard to keep his head up right now. Thunderstorm doesn’t push him away, although he does scoff a bit playfully and take the bulk of Pike’s weight against him as they catch their breath.

(And maybe, Pike thinks for a fleeting moment, he  _ is _ falling, but don’t cats always land on their feet?)

 

**v.**

Pike  _ insists _ on stopping at the next river they come across--he’s caked in dried ‘plant juice,’ a term which causes Thunderstorm’s nose to scrunch up more than the smell of the actual stuff. 

“Please don’t call it  _ juice _ .”

“I mean, what else do you want to call it? ‘Goo’?”

“That’s worse, never mind--”

And so it goes. Back and forth, natural, like they’ve been doing it for years. 

When they do finally hear the telltale sound of a rushing stream, Pike all but zeroes in on it, wandering off the path yet again with a somewhat reluctant and wary Thunderstorm following. They make their way carefully down the sloped earth to the bank at the riverside. Pike wastes no time in wading in a few feet, enough to sink him waist-deep in the cold water. Every hair on his body stands on end, but he pushes deeper, scrubbing at his arms and tunic with his bare hands. Maybe he should have taken his clothes off before getting in, but that’s not exactly something he does in the rare occasions he has company. With that in mind, he does turn, catching Thunderstorm sitting on the banks, knees drawn and watching him. Yorak bounds playfully in the shallows nearby, but he’s definitely staring right at Pike.

Or, he  _ was _ , before Pike caught him and he looked away. He smirks a little at that. Thunderstorm’s just cute that way. He’ll continue to unpack that later, though.

They’ve only been at the river for a few minutes, Pike managing to scrub the brunt of the mess out of his hair, when a voice rings out from a short distance.

“Hello down there!”

Pike and Thunderstorm are both immediately on their guard, despite Pike’s less-than-favorable position in the middle of the river, and Yorak returns to Thunderstorm’s side in a flash. They turn in tandem to seek out the source of the noise.

Several feet down the river, a cobblestone bridge spans the eddying water, and Pike’s vision easily catches the waving hand of the dwarf woman crossing to their side. He relaxes a bit--she doesn’t seem to pose any immediate danger--but Thunderstorm still seems on edge. Pike sloshes his way in long strides to reach the shoreline again, resting a wet hand on Thunderstorm’s shoulder, and it seems enough to break him most of the way out of it. 

“Sorry to startle you,” the woman calls ahead, and as she reaches the end of the bridge, Pike sees another halfling woman beside her. They’re dressed in bright cloaks, with colorful markings on their faces. “Are you two on your way to the festival? I’m afraid you’re still a few hours walk away.”

“Festival?” Thunderstorm says warily.

“Festival?” Pike asks at the same time, far less suspicious.

Her companion pipes up this time. “It’s famous in this area, you know--I’m surprised you  _ haven’t _ heard of it. You must not be from around here?”

Pike is. He thinks. He’s not exactly sure where he’s from anyway, but this is the closest thing he’s got to a home. Thunderstorm shakes his head. “Can’t say that I am.”

“Oh, that’d be a shame to miss it, though,” says the dwarf woman wistfully, turning to smile and take the hand of her companion. “It  _ is _ a celebration for people like us, after all.”

It takes Pike a moment to realize she’s including the two of them in her statement, too, and he feels a strange little pang in his chest--is it because of the insinuation, maybe? Or rather, the fact that it isn’t true? His mouth, however, beats his brain to the punch, as per usual. “‘Us’?”

“Yes, like the two of us. I’m sorry, I merely assumed--” She gestures to them both, Pike’s hand still leaving a growing spot of dampness on Thunderstorm’s shoulder, and he pulls it back reluctantly. 

“Oh, I--we’re--” Pike begins, a red warmth creeping into his cheeks, and he’s almost disappointed that he can’t control that, when--

“Yes, well, thank you for pointing us in the right direction,” Thunderstorm says with a curt little nod, and wraps his hand around Pike’s wrist, tugging him along towards the bridge. He follows wordlessly, marvels at the feeling of bare skin against his own, and really, it must have been too long since he was really touched like this because he can’t remember a time when anyone held his hand like this, ever.

Maybe he’s just acting this way because he’s been out of contact for so long.

(Maybe he’s just acting this way because the contact he wants most is from Thunderstorm.)

Either way, he barely remembers to turn and wave goodbye to the travelers before murmuring, “Wait, where are we going?”

“To the festival, I suppose? Or just… away. I already have enough people tagging along with me,” he replies lowly, and Pike can’t help but feel like maybe there’s a little warmth behind those words instead of annoyance. He smiles and allows himself to be dragged along, focuses for a moment on the feeling of Thunderstorm’s fingers, how they extend curiously bare from the intact palm of his leather glove. Yorak clips along at his heels, pauses briefly to shake the water from his fur, and resumes. It’s almost like deja vu, the way he finds himself marveling at how quickly this has become…  _ normal _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: pike and thunderstorm visit a festival, have a heart-to-heart, and maybe-sorta-share a bed.
> 
> find me on twitter @shootsharpest!!


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a moment of silence where Pike thinks he’s surely, definitely, absolutely crossed some sort of line, but then Thunderstorm hums his assent, murmurs a thank you, and shifts. Dark hair splays across Pike’s lap, wild and unruly, and he wonders what it feels like. It’s only after his brain registers that it is, in fact, surprisingly soft that he realizes where his hands have wandered to. 
> 
> Pike has a habit of trying to sneak his hands where they don’t belong; he hopes this time at least he’ll be welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the length of time between updates! i'm in my last year of college and it's been busy, and i've had so many klance projects i've worked on in the meanwhile that it took me too long to just... sit down and finish this part. to make up for it, please enjoy some soft cuddly thunderpike! we're getting close to their destination!

**vi.**

Sure enough, it’s a few more hours until they reach the festival, and it’s well into the afternoon, but there seems to be no indication of it winding down anytime soon. The two of them make their way together (although Thunderstorm has long since stopped holding his wrist) through the aisles of booths--some game, some food--and Pike insists on spending some of his long-hoarded coin on some of the fried snacks for them to share. Thunderstorm looks pretty grateful to be eating something other than grilled meats and foraged berries and mushrooms. 

At another stop, he watches Thunderstorm with amusement as he tries to knock over a set of bottles by firing bolts from a toy crossbow at them. He gives him four increasingly-frustrated attempts before he holds out a hand for it. Pike lines up his shot, exhales, and fires--

\-- _ direct hit _ .

The tiefling woman running the stand looks a bit surprised, but she applauds nonetheless and hands over a small prize, a miniature stuffed wolf, which Pike passes directly to Thunderstorm. He tries not to pay too much attention to the way his heart flutters when Thunderstorm looks at him like this, almost like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

“I had no idea you were such a good shot,” he says after a long moment, accepting the wolf and holding it close to his chest with a bemused smile.

“Yeah, well, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Stormy,” Pike nods to the booth keeper, falling into step alongside Thunderstorm and Yorak (who people haven’t seemed too terribly unsettled by, thankfully).

He almost thinks he imagines the quiet answer of, “I’d  _ like  _ to.” Pike catches Thunderstorm’s eyes and lets himself stare for just a moment before he’s shaking his head and huffing an incredulous little laugh. 

“Sure, man. You want the long version of my whole backstory, or the short version?” Then he winces. He didn’t mean that to come off quite as defensively as it sounded, but Thunderstorm seemingly takes it in stride.

“Short’s fine, if you want.”

“Okay,” he says, as if there’s nothing strange about spilling his guts to a man he’s only known a few days in the middle of a crowded fair full of strangers--at least, more so than his companion. “I don’t know where I came from. I don’t really have a place to belong anymore, and--” He pauses, unsure how to continue. They walk in silence for another few moments.

Before he realizes where their aimless wandering has taken them, Thunderstorm is catching his arm by the sleeve and tugging him towards a rather precarious-looking contraption, a giant wheel rotating slowly in a fixed place, with a number of seats around the outer edge. People sit in sets of two, following the arc of the circle before disembarking at the bottom.

Oh,  _ hell _ no. 

“There is no way you’re getting me on that thing,” Pike’s train of thought is interrupted from his own retelling of his semi-tragic backstory, bristling a bit at the thought of getting stuck on--or worse, one of them falling from--the wheel. “What if it breaks?”

“Then you can just  _ poof _ yourself down, right?” Thunderstorm cocks his head as he asks, in a way not unlike Yorak’s expression of confusion, and Pike would laugh at the parallel if he weren’t about to board this death-wheel. 

“Well, alright, if you’re afraid of sitting down for five minutes, I suppose we can just move on…”

“I never said anything about  _ afraid _ ,” he quips back before he can stop himself. “Just… for your own safety--” it’s not  _ entirely _ a lie, because he wouldn’t likely be able to save Thunderstorm from falling off this thing, but it’s too late because he’s already sitting down, looking at Pike expectantly.

“I can handle myself. Besides, it’ll give us a nice vantage point for where we’re heading tomorrow, right?”

Pike frowns. At this point, he doesn’t really feel he has much of an excuse, so he lets out a nervous breath and plops himself down next to a smug-looking Thunderstorm. “If we die, it’s your fault.”

Thunderstorm laughs again, and waves a hand at a pacing Yorak, who sits down and watches them intently as the wheel begins to turn again, and Pike’s hand is immediately gripping at the bar in front of them, hardly a foot above the ground as it creaks back to life. This is _ bullshit. _

The tops of the trees lower in his line of sight as they begin their ascent around the curve, and Pike’s knuckles are practically white when he feels a gentle pressure, warmth surrounding his fingers. His eyes snap from their focus on the horizon, down to--Thunderstorm’s hand carefully prying his own from the bar. He says nothing as his traveling companion takes a beat and shuffles their fingers around so that he’s replacing the metal pole with his own gloved hand. Pike returns the ginger squeeze he’s given, attempts (and fails) to pay attention to the chill in the air, the birds flying low against the fading rays of the sun, anything but warm fingers in his own--something he can’t remember ever having felt. Thunderstorm’s hands are as calloused as he remembers from their first night, but just as tender with him, touching him not like he’s fragile but as if he’s something precious, to be protected, and his brain helpfully supplies that that’s something he hardly has any experience with, either. 

Which is, predictably, when the wheel groans, shudders, and comes to a stop, right as they crest the hill of its path. Pike’s fingers immediately resume their frantic clenching, and he at least has the afterthought to murmur a hasty apology to Thunderstorm, whose hand he’s just crushed. Coming to a stop seems, thankfully, to be the only thing happening right now--no seats snapping off their perch, no wheel tilting dangerously to one side--and Pike takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to stop gritting his teeth.

“I don’t think  _ this _ is normal,” Thunderstorm says, managing to sound thoughtful, concerned, and even a bit smug all at once. Pike shoots him a glare and he raises his free hand in a placating gesture. 

“Really? What gave you that impression?” Thunderstorm just shakes his head, smiling, and surveys their surroundings. Typical.

As much as Pike hates being stuck in their little death-trap bucket suspended over the ground, out of safe poofing range, he thinks the real difficulty he’s staring in the face right now is less figurative, a literal face--Thunderstorm’s. Thunderstorm’s eyes glinting in the final daylight, Thunderstorm’s lips twitching up amused at the corners, Thunderstorm’s hair and his hood’s fur lining both tousled gently by the wind, Thunderstorm’s unbothered and even breathing despite the predicament, Thunderstorm, Thunderstorm,  _ Thunderstorm. _

Fuck.

 

**vii.**

By the time they’ve gotten down, night has long since fallen, and Pike is completely exhausted. He makes for the road back into the forest, dragging his feet, when--yet again--a hand grabs his arm and tries to change his trajectory. 

“It’s late.”

“... I can see that, yes,” he sighs, because at this point Thunderstorm really  _ must _ be trying to kill him, grabbing him again like this.

“Let’s stay at the inn, okay? I’ll pay, don’t worry--I have a little extra left over,” Thunderstorm says earnestly, and he can’t explain away the traitorous fluttering of his stomach at that. But, a bed  _ does _ sound good right now, and it’s been ages since he was able to really sleep in one, so he finds himself following wordlessly behind Thunderstorm and Yorak until the towering wooden sign comes into view. 

There’s a short line to wait through, and Pike busies himself by taking note of the various pieces around the lobby, estimates their worth as an afterthought, although he’s not planning to steal any of them (at least, not under the innkeeper’s nose--he’s too tired to be sure he won’t be caught). Thunderstorm, who he knows is not really one for superfluity in conversation, stacks coins on the counter close to the innkeeper and grunts, “Two rooms, please.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she says, folding her hands in front of her on the counter.  If Pike didn’t know any better, he’d say she seemed a bit surprised at first to know they wanted separate rooms--before remembering the nature of the festival they’d only just left. Of course. “We’re quite full at the moment due to the fair, so we only have one room left available. I can assure you the bed is... quite spacious, however, if that is a concern for you two.”

Thunderstorm sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and glances back towards Pike. His own face is tired, he knows, and probably unreadable, but the latter is more product of tremendous effort rather than exhaustion.

“... We’ll take it,” Thunderstorm answers for them, returning half the coins to his purse and clipping it back to his belt. She smiles and hands over a rustic-looking key, as well as a few well-washed towels, before pointing them towards the stairs. Yorak following behind him, tail wagging and threatening to knock over a potted plant on the side of a doorway as they pass through. 

Pike collapses onto the bed immediately, leaving even his boots laced up before he’s half asleep, and just aware enough of the dipping of the mattress beside him. “Hey, you need to take your shoes off, at least.”

Pike murmurs a wordless noise in response, and Thunderstorm makes one halfway between exasperation and something he can’t quite place. He’s too tired to think right now, he feels. His boots loosen and slip off--no, they’re being pulled off--as does the cuff around his right wrist.  _ Clink. _ It’s off to his right, maybe on the table, now? 

Finally, the covers are tugged out from beneath him, with some minimal wriggling on his part, before he’s enveloped in warm, soft sheets, and he nearly shivers with how nice it feels. The weight bowing the mattress lightens, and he hears rustling just out of reach again. He cracks an eye open after a moment in time to see Thunderstorm shed his outer coat, armor and fur giving way to a fitted, leather-crossed tunic, and before he has the good sense to shut his eye again, Thunderstorm is bending down, over, and--

Lying on the hard wooden floor of their room, right on top of his coat.

“What are you doin’?” Pike mumbles, sitting up from the covered position Thunderstorm left him in--Thunderstorm, who looks a bit sheepish at having been caught. 

“Uh. Sleeping?”

“Then why are you on the floor? You can’t sleep on the  _ floor _ .”

“We’ve slept outside, Pike, it’s not that much different.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t have another option then,” he frowns. A beat. And then that foolish, self-interested part of his brain takes over. “... Come up here. Sleep with me.”

(It’s probably a trick of the shadows in the room that makes it look like Thunderstorm is blushing at that.)

(Definitely.)

Miraculously, he doesn’t argue; Thunderstorm must be as tired as he is after today, but as he slips into the bed next to him, Pike suddenly feels awake, electricity crackling across his skin, standing every hair on end. He can feel that hint of warmth, tantalizing, creeping across the space between them, and he readjusts his pillow, nonchalantly slipping closer. Better, but somehow even more nerve-wracking.

Judging by the frequent shifting beside him, Thunderstorm isn’t faring much better in the sleeping department. He rolls onto his side, glances over him, and Thunderstorm does the same. He looks about as wrecked as Pike probably does, after a full day walking and at the carnival. Maybe he’s not used to sleeping in beds either and feels weird? Or maybe Thunderstorm isn’t used to sleeping with someone like this. That’s okay, though, Pike thinks, because at least he isn’t the only one.

Thunderstorm is looking at him still, he realizes, and hopes this time that  _ his _ cheeks aren’t turning red, although he highly doubts he’d be able to tell. The bed is cramped enough as is--no need for him to go and make it awkward.

Which is, of course, exactly when he has to go and open his mouth and make it awkward.

“So, Stormy,” Pike whispers into the space between them. “Where… exactly are you going, all alone?”

“I told you already,” Thunderstorm replies, quiet and just a touch cold. “I don’t exactly have anyone to  _ go  _ with. Or did you forget that?”

Pike winces, then, and Thunderstorm softens a bit. “Sorry, I just… I’m not used to being… around people. You know?”

“I do,” Pike says, sincerely. He’s not exactly what it is in him that compels to continue with, “I’ll tell you what happened if you tell me.”

The silence that follows feels increasingly suffocating, until Thunderstorm huffs out a little laugh, and the tension snaps like a bowstring. 

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I tell you, huh?”

“Probably not,” Pike grins. “I can be  _ very _ persistent.”

He doesn’t need to be able to see in the dark to see the eye roll that follows. But, it turns out, it does allow him to see the minute shake of Thunderstorm’s head and the hint of a smile that graces those lips. 

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Uh,” Pike’s brain buffers. He didn’t actually expect to make it this far. “I guess… where are you from?”

“Nowhere you’d know,” Thunderstorm snorts. “Doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Oh. That’s not, like, weirdly cryptic or anything, sure. Family?”

“That’s not how this works. You have to tell me where  _ you’re _ from.”

There it was. Pike lets out a sigh, rolling onto his back. “I meant it before. I don’t… I don’t know.”

He feels the bed shift as Thunderstorm props himself up on an arm. “You… don’t know.” It comes out less of a question and more an incredulity.

“Part of the whole witch-cat-curse-thingy, I guess? I don’t really remember anything at all before being a cat. If it wasn’t for Mellie, I’d  _ still _ be a cat, wandering around, eating mice, licking my own--never mind, you get the point.” A breath in, a breath out, a silent plea for his voice not to choke up going unanswered. “I don’t even know if I have a family, y’know? Like, they could be out there, looking for me and I wouldn’t even recognize them.”

“I’m sorry,” he hears, in a voice he almost doesn’t recognize, and when he turns, teary-eyed, Thunderstorm is there, hesitating a moment before pulling him into a pretty awkward (but nice, in a way) hug. “I don’t have any family, but… if I did--if I were your family, I’d keep looking for you. I’m sure they are, I mean. Looking for you.”

This time, as he grips the back of Thunderstorm’s tunic, at least he isn’t alone. He’s not used to this feeling, but he doesn’t hate it, and it makes him wonder just what he’s missing.

“Thank you,” Pike murmurs against Thunderstorm’s chest. “You must miss yours, too. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They… died a long time ago.” He can hear the sound of Thunderstorm swallowing thickly. “When I was a child, actually. Except my brother, that was--that was... recent.”

He wants to ask. He wants to pry like he always does, but this feels off-limits. Pike chooses instead to run his hand up and down Thunderstorm’s back, just once. His companion stiffens at the furthered contact, and then relaxes, breath puffing gently against his ears. Involuntarily, they flicker, and Thunderstorm laughs softly again. Before Pike can apologize for hitting him in the nose, though, he feels fingers brush over them gently, moving down to scratch right at the base again and he’s  _ gone. _

“You’re purring.”

“Am not.”

“Sure, whatever.”

 

**viii.**

When Pike wakes up, he’s alone. He isn’t sure what he expected.

After a bit of time rolling around in the still-warm bed, he stretches and tugs on his boots. He can smell breakfast from here, and it’s getting too hard to resist padding downstairs to check it out, so he does. The small room is packed full of people--unsurprising, considering how full the inn must have been when they arrived. He spots Thunderstorm at a table in the corner, a plate piled high with food and an empty booth in front of him. 

Pike slides in easily. “Sorry, must’ve slept in.”

“It’s okay. Didn’t want to wake you,” Thunderstorm greets through a mouthful. Pike feels an urge to mention something about table manners, but he doubts his are much better. He swipes a small sausage from the plate and takes a bite before Thunderstorm can protest. 

(He does anyway.)

They lapse into silence after Pike is served, shoveling food into their mouths as if they’d been starved--which, okay, is  _ kind  _ of true in Pike’s case. It’s only when Thunderstorm mentions something about the bathroom that the quiet breaks.

As Pike watches him stand and leave, he wonders if he did something to ruin this thing between them, crossed an invisible boundary by clinging to him so long last night, because now he’s probably packing his things in the room and taking Yorak out the window, walking out of Pike’s life forever, and--

\--someone slides into the booth next to him. He startles, tail bristling, and snaps his gaze to his right. A tall, muscular human man sits beside him, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans further into Pike’s space.

“Trouble in  _ paradise, _ kitty?”

If he could bristle further, he would at the fresh stench of alcohol on this man’s breath--it was only just before noon, for goodness’ sake! His eyes flit down to the stein in the man’s hand to confirm his suspicions, when he feels a hand slide along the back of the booth behind him, pulling him even further into this man’s personal bubble.

And, okay, this guy is kind of annoying and a little gross, but he’s still not one to pass up some attention, so sue him. Pike forces a little grin, shaking off his discomfort as he moves to face the man more. “Not… not exactly, man. It’s not like that.”

“Not like trouble? Or not like paradise?”

He’s opening his mouth to reply--no doubt something witty, he thinks--as someone clears their throat behind the man, who startles and turns in his seat. Thunderstorm is standing, arms crossed. Pike realizes with a hint of relief that he still isn’t wearing his usual clothes--he must really just have gone to the bathroom.

Thunderstorm speaks lowly, voice taking on a gravely tone Pike hasn’t heard since he threatened them when they met. “You bothering him?”

“Uh, no,” the man rolls his eyes. “He just looked like he needed some company, ‘s all.”

Thunderstorm’s eyes flicker to Pikes’, searching. “Did you ask  _ him? _ ” If Pike thought it was tense before, this time definitely takes the fruit tart. 

The man’s face scrunches angrily. “Fuck off.”

“I’m not going anywhere. This is  _ my _ table. Leave.”

With a grumble, the man stands, sizing himself up against Thunderstorm, who ignores him and pushes by to take the seat next to Pike. He whispers a little “sorry for this,” but before Pike can question why, Thunderstorm is slipping his arm around his waist, leaning in, and saying loud enough that the man can hear, “You okay, babe?”

“I--” Pike stammers, trying to school his face, to play along. He can do that; he’s good at that. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine. Thanks.” He places a hand on top of Thunderstorm’s, hoping it isn’t too much.

(Too much, too much, too much? This is all too much. Probably. He hates how much he likes it.)

 

**ix.**

Walking after their morning at the inn is quieter than usual. Pike is plenty used to Thunderstorm’s stoicism, but it’s unusual for himself not to be chatting as they walk, and he’s sure they’re both thinking that, after a few days of the air between them being filled with Pike’s rambling stories and offhanded questions.

He’s back to thinking he did something wrong. How could he not be?

Yorak follows close to Thunderstorm. Maybe he can sense the strangeness between them, or perhaps he just wants to be close to Thunderstorm. Pike doesn’t blame him for either.

By mid afternoon, Pike’s feet are starting to ache for a break from all the walking. He slows his pace, rolling out his shoulders, sighing loudly.

“We should stop,” Thunderstorm says, like clockwork; and, after hours of silent walking, just like that they’re back in their groove. It’s almost funny how simple it is.

Almost.

They stretch out in the grass, sun hanging above the treeline. Pike’s focus blurs at the edges as he stares up at the clouds, blades of grass tickling his cheeks and arms, folded behind his head. Thunderstorm stays sitting, running his fingers through Yorak’s fur, and Pike can’t help the little twinge of jealousy that shoots through him, although he at least finds it in himself to feel embarrassed about it.

Minutes trickle by in the more comfortable silence, and after a bit Yorak rolls over to nuzzle Pike’s hand. When Thunderstorm smiles at that, golden rays of sun catch the tips of his hair, feather around his shoulders, glint in his violet eyes. Pike’s stomach flutters, flip-flops to the top of his chest, and he finds himself grinning back. In this moment, everything feels okay again.

 

**x.**

Making camp gets quicker each night they spend together. Tonight, Pike makes the fire just as Thunderstorm showed him how to do, and Thunderstorm forages for dinner. He returns to the makeshift camp with an armful of mushrooms and a small creature Yorak no doubt caught for them. Thunderstorm settles in and uses the knife from his boot to clean the animal, feeding the extra parts to his wolf, and Pike spears the pieces Thunderstorm hands over on sticks to roast over the fire.

It doesn’t have to be weird, Pike thinks to himself. Everything is back to normal.

“I figure if we keep it up at this rate, we’ll be there within the end of the next week,” Thunderstorm is saying as they lean back against the rocks after dinner. Their arms are touching, just barely, but it’s enough contact that the warmth Pike feels far outshines anything the fire before them could produce.

Lost in thought, Pike forgets to answer, and Thunderstorm nudges him gently. “Pike? You sleeping?” 

(Since when was his head resting on Thunderstorm’s shoulder?)

“No, no, I’m here, Stormy,” he mumbles, tail swinging lazily back and forth beside him. “I’m listening.”

“Sure you are, sleepyhead. Get some rest, I’ll take first watch.”

Pike opens his mouth to argue, but it’s taken over by a big yawn, and he knows he won’t win this one. So, he curls himself in, and he doesn’t move to take his head off Thunderstorm’s shoulder. If Thunderstorm minds, he doesn’t say anything.

At first, he thinks to himself, with a warmth like this, he doesn’t need his cape as a makeshift blanket. But the night quickly turns chilly, and the fire dims down with no one adding fresh logs, although Thunderstorm shifts gently to stoke it every once in a while. When Pike starts to shiver, he feels his companion move again, but not towards the fire. He peeks an eye open in time to see Thunderstorm rummaging through their packs. As he turns back, Pike pretends to be asleep again, and he feels the familiar weight of his own cape being placed over the two of them. Emboldened, he nuzzles a bit closer, into the warmth of their makeshift blanket, as well as Thunderstorm’s body heat.

It doesn’t take long for Pike to drift off, especially when Thunderstorm starts scratching his ears again, probably thinking him already asleep. This time, he can’t deny the fact that he really  _ is _ purring.

Thunderstorm stays still and vigilant; judging by the moon when Pike wakes, Thunderstorm has stayed in the same position long enough to keep him from waking for several hours. 

Then, Pike realizes he can see the moon over them, which means he must be looking straight up. As he comes to, he feels warmth beneath his head and hands resting in his hair. And, when his gaze drifts to the right, he can see Thunderstorm’s chest, his face, his eyes watching him. Watching him, cushioning Pike’s head in his lap. It’s surprisingly comfortable, Pike thinks for a moment, considering the fact that Thunderstorm looks like he could cut diamonds on the muscles of his chest. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but he knows Thunderstorm knows he’s awake, and the longer he goes without saying something probably only makes this more awkward.

“Uh. Hey.”

(Smooth.)

(Not that he’d admit that he tries to be.)

“Welcome back,” Thunderstorm murmurs, lip quirking at the corner at the way Pike’s ears twitch back to life beneath his fingers, and then the blissful warmth is gone as he pulls his hands out of Pike’s hair. “I hate to wake you up so fast, but… It’s been a while and I kind of have to go.”

“Go…? Oh, oh, yeah, ‘course,” Pike stammers as he sits back up, back stiff from lying on the ground. He rolls his shoulders best as he can and starts working out the crick in his neck. “Sorry I kept you so long. You could have woken me up, you know.”

Thunderstorm casts him a glance over his shoulder. “It’s okay. You looked comfortable.” Then, he’s walking into the treelines, disappearing into the shadows.

Huh.

Well, he's definitely not going back to sleep after that--his neck still hurts, and his mind is far too awake now to try to get any rest, he thinks. The phantom feeling of Thunderstorm's touch still lingers on his body, he realizes--sleep did nothing to relieve him from that. Come to think of it, as the remnants of the dream he woke from return from him, there really wasn't an actual escape, at all. Fingers in his hair, an earthy scent, heavy brows smoothing into an affectionate expression, a rare smile, warmth warmth warmth--Pike wonders briefly if he will ever actually be free from this, and then if he even wants to be.

Of course, this is when Thunderstorm returns from his trip into the woods. Yorak's tail flutters sleepily as Thunderstorm pets his head on the way by, and the wolf snuffles back to sleep. There--there's that softening expression. Is this deja vu? Is this a dream? He can't really tell at this point, but it doesn't matter, because those eyes are suddenly trained on him, noiseless words falling from Thunderstorm's lips.

“Huh? Sorry, I'm--uh, spacing.”

Thunderstorm grunts a little with the effort of sitting back down next to Pike. “I said, do you need to go back to sleep?”

“No,” he says, too quickly, and Thunderstorm quirks a brow. “I mean, nah, I'm good. Let me take watch.”

“It's okay, I'm not tired.”

Pike frowns at that. “It's been hours, though.”

“I know.”

“Stormy,” he says softly. “You're not tired, or you don't want to sleep?”

And there it is. Thunderstorm won't meet his gaze for a moment because that's always his tell, and Pike knows he's hit the nail on the head. As the silence lingers, stretches taut across the moment, Pike tries again. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

He holds his hands up. “It's cool, we don't have to. I just figured you probably don't get the chance to talk to other people all that much anyway, just offerin', man.”

“I don't, really, no.”

He grins at him. “Aw, Stormy, I really must be special, huh?”

“Shut up and go back to sleep.” There's a warmth, a fondness to it, though, and Pike's gotten much better at reading it lately.

“Nope. I told you I'm taking watch, so… Better get comfy if you’re gonna catch some shut-eye.”

“‘Shut-eye?’ Who even says that?” Thunderstorm chuckles, leaning back against the rough, decidedly  _ un _ comfortable rockface behind them. And, well, that’s just unacceptable.

“Nope, no-no-no--no you don’t,” Pike chides, gripping one of Thunderstorm’s biceps to pull him away from the hard wall. “I just said get  _ comfy, _ not ‘hey, that cliff would make an excellent pillow, don’t you think?’”

“You have a better idea? Not like the ground is much better.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” In a move that surprises both of them, apparently (although Pike isn’t sure which of them is more so), the hand around Thunderstorm’s arm tugs gently, guides him to lie with his head in Pike’s lap, a direct mirror of the position Pike woke up in. “There, that’s--that’s at least a little better, right?”

There’s a moment of silence where Pike thinks he’s surely, definitely,  _ absolutely _ crossed some sort of line, but then Thunderstorm hums his assent, murmurs a thank you, and shifts. Dark hair splays across Pike’s lap, wild and unruly, and he wonders what it feels like. It’s only after his brain registers that it is, in fact, surprisingly soft that he realizes where his hands have wandered to. 

Pike has a habit of trying to sneak his hands where they don’t belong; he hopes this time at least he’ll be welcome.

Thunderstorm makes a noise not unlike a sigh, long lashes fluttering over cheeks before Pike feels his companion’s head tilt ever-so-gently into his palm. Boldened, his fingers curl, nails trailing over Thunderstorm’s scalp, and yet somehow it feels like Pike is the one relaxing. He lets his mind wander as he stares at crackling embers, listens to the sounds of the wilderness around them, feels Thunderstorm relax on his lap, breath a steady puff against his leg. 

It must be hours later that he wakes, although it feels like mere minutes to Pike. But the sun is up now, and Yorak is trotting around, eager to get a move-on. As Thunderstorm stirs awake, Pike snaps from his trance.

“Hey. ‘Morning.”

“Mm.”

“You were out a long time, buddy,” Pike murmurs, for once incredibly conscious of his volume. “We probably need to get going soon. Can you get up?”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling himself up into a sitting position and rubbing at his neck. “Sorry.”

Pike’s reply is immediate, unthinking. “Don’t be. You put up with me, too, right?” The laugh he gets in response is warm. Almost as warm as the hand Thunderstorm offers to pull him up. 

(Is he gripping his hand too long? He’s gripping his hand too long. Shit.)

“We’ve got a few more days before we have to cross through the mountains. But there’s a little town a day’s walk from here--we could probably afford to stay there tonight, if that sounds good?”

“ _ Please _ ,” Pike grins. Call him spoiled, but sleeping in a bed was  _ awesome, _ and if they’re going to be hoofing it through a mountain range for a few days, he’ll be damned if he gives up a guaranteed good night’s sleep beforehand. Even if it comes with sleeping next to Thunderstorm again. Or, maybe,  _ especially. _

Thunderstorm claps his hands. “Okay, that’s settled. We can’t stick around much longer, then.” He whistles for Yorak, they heft their packs, and they’re off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm hoping to have the next update up as soon as i have more spare time to write :-)
> 
> as always, find me on twitter @shootsharpest for my klance art, headcanons, etc! until next time <3


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